


Such a Good Boy

by orphan_account



Series: Two Brothers Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Gen, Kid!Lock, Kidlock, Non consensual spanking, Paddle, Slipper, Spanking, Spatula - Freeform, Strap, Teenlock, belt, teen!lock, wooden spoon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 04:03:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1764748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft was usually such a good boy. However, on occasion, he would miscalculate data and end up being punished. This is the story of those instances. Will contain home and school punishments. Multichaptered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 10 Seconds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiaoconnell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiaoconnell/gifts).



Ever since Mycroft was born, he had been a good boy.

A quiet, docile baby, he rarely cried unless he truly needed something. Mr and Mrs Holmes frequently found themselves peering into his nursery or his buggy to check that he hadn't been kidnapped, for even his breathing was soft and lacked the usual mucousy cough that most babies seemed afflicted with. When he grew into a toddler, he formed full sentences long before the usual age and generally only spoke them when absolutely necessary. Usually he would simply sit in front of his mother and father's book shelf, peering at the novels within it, occasionally taking one from one of the lower shelves.

There were, however, a number of instances in his home life when his parents were forced to punish him.

* * *

 

A short, stubby finger ran quietly over the spines of the green set of books in front of him. Aged six, he had already read every single book on the shelf within his reach, as well as a few which he had climbed the vast wooden shelf to reach. This was against the rules, of course, but Mycroft's logical mind saw very little issue with it: the shelves stuck out further than some staircases would, and if he fell, it would only be a couple of feet onto the soft rug below. Thus, it was not a dangerous activity to take part in and was worth it if it quenched his boredom. Having already completed all of the homework set for him to do over the half term holiday (which consisted of three horrendously easy maths pages and a poem using similes to write), he was completely sure that he had never been this bored in his entire life. One book on one of the higher shelves had his eye completely. He had heard a few of daddy's friends talking about it before – 'War and Peace' by Leo Toltstoy. It was only about another armslength above where the tips of his fingers reached, and so he would only need to climb up two shelves and he would reach it.

“Mycroft, are you alright?” his mother suddenly called from downstairs. A habit lingering from his infanthood, she frequently felt it was necessary to check on him.

“Yes, mummy!” he softly replied, his gentle voice barely reaching his mother. Before she could come up and check on him in person, Mycroft grabbed the highest shelf that he could reach, and hauled his feet up onto the bottom shelf. It was quite a comfortable position, really – much like climbing a ladder, but with the secure wideness of step that staircases offered. A smile came to Mycroft's lips when that idea occurred to him.

Two shelves up later, he fell.

* * *

 

If the single thud hadn't disrupted Mrs Holmes from her work in the living room (Mr Holmes was out in the garden), the following one hundred would have done, followed by a much louder, more echoing thump. In the second that it took her to call Mr Holmes in from the garden, she was running up the stairs. There, in the long hallway, was her prize polished oak bookcase. Twelve foot tall, it brushed the very high ceiling of the hallway, and laid out almost reached the staircase. Around it were hundreds of books, and a very shellshocked looking Mycroft.

“Mike, what happened?”

As Mr Holmes began to ascend the stairs, Mrs Holmes lifted Mycroft up into her arms, cuddling him. For once, he didn't mention that his name was Mycroft, nor did he stiffen at her cuddling. It didn't occur to him to lie, either, due to the firm idea in his head that climbing the bookcase wasn't dangerous.

“I was climbing the bookcase to get a book and my foot slipped. I fell backwards, but I kept hold of the bookcase and it came with me.”

Mrs Holmes held Mycroft to her chest for just a fraction of a second after Mycroft's frank (and adorable, due to his slight lisp) statement, before pushing him back by his shoulders.

“Are you telling me, Mycroft, that you deliberately ignored one of the few rules we have here when you could have taken an extra ten seconds and asked me to get the book for you?” her voice was dangerously low and quiet (Mycroft, although he had never been in trouble himself, had seen enough children punished at school to recognize the warning signs).

“Yes, mummy, but it really wasn't-”

“If you are about to say that it wasn't dangerous, I strongly advise you to stop right there. Go to your bedroom right now while myself and your father discuss what to do.”

* * *

 

Mycroft felt genuine dread settle in the pit of his stomach, which he found himself unable to ignore. Although he had never been punished himself before, he had heard his mother and father discussing their own childhoods frequently enough to deduce the most logical outcome: he would have his bottom smacked. He had also attended school since the minimum age of three, and was well aware that the consequences there generally seemed to involve some form of physical punishment. In the novels he had read in his early reading career, when he was only two or so, physical punishment was commonplace.

Really, even before he considered the data, he knew what was going to happen.

_Knock knock_.

“Come in.” Mycroft softly replied, knowing too well that there was no chance of a last minute reprieve and so to use his manners would be the best course of action. The door opened, and Mycroft was rather startled, however, to see his father stood in the doorway. A surreptitious peer revealed that he was totally alone. Mr Holmes closed the door gently before coming to sit beside Mycroft on the bed.

“Your mother has asked me to deal with you. She says she's too angry at the moment.”

“Was the bookshelf okay, or was there damage?” Mycroft asked, the dread in his stomach suddenly deepening to guilt. He'd felt the crack of something when he had gone down with the bookshelf.

“One of the shelves is cracked badly: it won't bear the weight of books any more, and so will have to be removed.”

Mycroft stared down at his sock-clad feet. He knew well how much that bookcase meant to his mother: she had been given it by her own parents when she had married his father, shortly before they died in a car accident. Guilt swarmed through Mycroft, and despite his early developing tendency to ignore emotion, he felt choked.

“I'm sorry...” was all he could stutter out. Carefully, his father patted his shoulder, and Mycroft felt tears well in his eyes.

“I know, Mike. I'm afraid, however, you have to be punished. You deliberately broke a very important rule, and you put yourself in danger as well as spoiling one of your mother's favourite possessions. I'm going to have to spank you.”

* * *

 

The next couple of minutes were highly uncomfortable for both parties, for one had never been involved in a spanking before and the other had last been on the receiving end almost fifteen years previously, when he was fourteen. In the end, Mr Holmes sat against the wall with his legs stretched out, with Mycroft lying face-down across his lap. Mycroft didn't argue or fight while his trousers were lowered, he merely lay penitently, fully accepting that he deserved what was coming to him.

_Smack. Smack. Smack._ The smacks were slow and methodical, landing all across Mycroft's bottom. Despite his emotional and intellectual maturity, he was only six, and it didn't take long for him to begin to squirm. Mr Holmes could remember from his own childhood that his father or mother (or grandmother, grandfather, uncle, aunt, teacher or whoever else deigned to punish him) generally scolded him during the punishment. However, the expression of abject horror on Mycroft's face when he had learned that the bookcase had been damaged had been enough to tell him that it was not necessary.  _Smack. Smack. Smack smack smack._ The spanking grew more fast paced and a small hiss escaped from Mycroft's lips. However, to his ultimate credit, he made no effort to move out of the way or reduce his punishment, he merely took it stoically, burying his face into his blanket. 

“Almost done, Mycroft.”

Mycroft was almost a term of affection to the boy: he was so used to being called the nickname he hated, Mike, that he almost enjoyed being called his proper name. Two more smacks landed across Mycroft's underwear-covered bottom, and finally he cracked. A sniffle came from him, and he pushed his head further into the blanket. Mr Holmes allowed him a few moments before gently helping him up and scooping him into a tight hug.

“I'm sorry, daddy.” Mycroft's tiny, lisping voice sounded a lot more suited to his age than it normally did, and Mr Holmes couldn't help but smile a little, despite the seriousness of the situation. He loved Mycroft's intelligence, and his quirky ways...but sometimes, just occasionally, he wished that his son was an average six year old boy.

“It's okay, Mycroft. Once you're ready, I think you might want to apologize to mummy.”

Mycroft's strength and emotional detachment was long gone. He truly was an ordinary six year old boy in that moment. He nodded vigorously into his father's shoulder, before sniffling again. 

In that moment, Mr Holmes truly believed that he would never have to punish a child of his again.

A year later, his next son was born.

 


	2. Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mistakes are easy to make, especially with a toddler like Sherlock.

“Mike, myself and your father need to go down to the village to get something – we'll only be five minutes, so can you be a big, brave boy and keep an eye on Sherlock?”

Mycroft winced at the infantile language (“I'm  _nine_ mother!” he had said the previous week, only for her to laugh at him) before nodding. “Yes, mummy.”

“You make sure you keep both eyes on him – you know how much he crawls about, now, and walks too.”

“Indeed, mummy, I am well aware of Sherlock's motor skills.”

Mrs Holmes gave Mycroft a light, joking smack on the shoulder before hugging him. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

A moment later, Mr Holmes plopped Sherlock into Mycroft's arms, and the two adults left. Mycroft glanced disdainfully at the writhing two year old in his arms. Although he didn't like to admit it, he did feel a certain degree of affection to the toddler. When he was a baby, Mycroft had spent hours and hours reading to him, everything from Noddy to Toltstoy. Sherlock had responded well, soon making appropriate noises when Mycroft held up letters. Sherlock had been a little experiment, and it had been nice.

Then he'd started having tantrums.

Whenever he was left to his own devices in a playpen or his crib for just thirty seconds, it would begin. A low cry at first, which would build up to a shrieking wail which pierced Mycroft's mind and stopped him from concentrating.

* * *

 

“Sherlock, I'm going to put you down here on the sofa whilst I go and get some of my school equipment. Stay still, I will be back in five minutes or so.” Mycroft didn't simplify his speech for the toddler, for he was quite certain that Sherlock understood – despite having only just passed his second birthday, his speech could be excellent when he wanted it to be...he just generally chose to communicate with screaming, instead. 

Mycroft decided to take his time as he picked through his school books to find something he hadn't already done. Truthfully, he had read every single book in the house and was just desperately seeking something to do that didn't involve his brother. Eventually, he found a sheet of English comprehension which he hadn't done yet as well as some Geography which he had only half completed. Taking his pencil case too, he ran back down the stairs (Mycroft wasn't totally immune to childish impulses, and he was known to run up and down the stairs) and re-entered the living room, not even glancing in the direction of the sofa to see if Sherlock was there. It didn't occur to him that Sherlock would have moved, and so he happily worked for ten minutes before calling,

“Sherlock, do you need anything?”

Silence.

“Sherlock?”

Still nothing.

Frustrated, Mycroft glanced up from his work, expecting to see his little brother smiling at him in a most infuriating way. Instead, he saw an empty sofa, with a few baby toys strewn across it. Sherlock was gone.

* * *

 

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” Mycroft's voice rang worriedly around the house as he tried to find his brother. Largely, the concern in his voice wasn't for his brother, however – it was for himself. If his brother got lost on his watch, he was certain that he would be punished. He needed to find the boy and keep both eyes and possibly a hand on him until his parents returned. How on earth did they cope with the little monster all of the time?

A sudden, terrible image came to Mycroft: because it was a hot day, their parents had left the back door open to let the air circulate. The back door which was situated in the living room where he had left Sherlock. Faster than he moved at any school sporting event, Mycroft thundered down the stairs (he had been searching Sherlock's room when his epiphany struck him) and scampered out of the back door into the small garden, which was stuffed to the brim with growing fruit and vegetables. A cursory glance revealed no Sherlock, as did a quick poke in the plants.

* * *

 

Meanwhile, Sherlock was having a wonderful time. He had gone out of the back door and down to the side gate of the house, which was generally bolted rather than locked. By clambering onto a flowerpot he was able to unbolt the door, and within seconds he was outside of the house and was setting off down the street, occasionally breaking to crawl when his legs got too tired. Luckily for him, his parents had just started to come back from their brief trip into the village, and before Sherlock had even cleared the street his parents turned into it. His father spotted him immediately, and swooped forwards to pick him up.

“Sherlock! What are you doing here?”

Sherlock, quite worn out from his little adventure, responded by leaning his head onto his father's shoulder and falling fast asleep.

* * *

 

As soon as the two parents reached the house, they saw that the gate was swinging open and realised what must have happened. Mr Holmes immediately took Sherlock upstairs to his cot for a nap (after he had picked the pieces of gravel from the toddler's knees and toes from his walk), and hearing the voice of his wife, decided to stay with Sherlock. The decision on what to do with Mycroft was left with Mrs Holmes.

“Mummy, I'm really sorry, but I left Sherlock for a couple of minutes and he's disappeared.”

Mrs Holmes looked down at Mycroft's face, which was pale, with his lower lip trembling, and felt some of her resolve disappear. She had guessed that something similar had happened, and had planned on walloping Mycroft right then and there.

“I know, Mike – we found him on the street, crawling along. Imagine if we'd chosen to come back a different way, and he'd crawled right into the road and died? You might act like you don't care much for Sherlock, but imagine how guilty you'd feel if you were the reason for his death.”

Two scarlet circles flamed on Mycroft's pale face. “I'm sorry, mummy...are you going to punish me?”

Mrs Holmes steeled herself for tears and cries before nodding firmly. “Yes, Mike. Go up to your bedroom and I will be there shortly.”

Mr Holmes couldn't help but overhead Mycroft crying as he entered his room, something the nine year old very rarely did. 

* * *

 

When Mrs Holmes entered her oldest child's bedroom carrying a wooden spoon, she was reminded all too much of her own childhood. She, like Mycroft, had been of far above average intelligence, but unlike Mycroft had no sense of self preservation. She would skip school, swear at people and generally cause havoc, especially in her teen years. She could picture her own mother in that moment, carrying a wooden spoon, or her father, taking off his belt.

She had never loved them any less...would Mycroft be worse affected?

“Mycroft, I need you to be brave and bend over the edge of the bed.”

Mycroft hesitated: the spoon had thrown him off. His one and only experience of corporal punishment was all of the data he had to go on, and that really wasn't enough to calculate what would happen to him. 

“Mummy, I am sorry for what happened with Sherlock. I was silly to assume he would stay where I put him.”

“You were silly, Mycroft, very silly. Some would say your actions were _stupid_ , in fact. You're not normally stupid...so why were you today?”

Mycroft sighed, and for a moment Mrs Holmes saw what he really was: a fragile little boy who was too clever and felt like an outcast. Normally, she just saw a mini-adult, willing to discuss anything of importance. 

“I assumed that Sherlock would be as I was at his age, and would obey. I used anomalous data, and I came to an incorrect conclusion.”

There was a moment of silence, before Mrs Holmes hugged her son tightly.

“Bend over the bed, Mycroft, and we'll get this over with.”

Mycroft obeyed, his fingers clutching into the soft blanket just as they had three years previously. No matter how hard he tried, Mycroft couldn't delete the memory of his first spanking from his mind, and he was fairly sure that this one would be significantly worse. Mrs Holmes lowered his trousers in one smooth movement, and had to harden herself to do what came next: she lowered his underwear, too. Mycroft sucked in air softly...new data.

“This will hurt, Mycroft.”

Mycroft didn't quite have the guts left in him to point out that that was the whole point of doing this. Quite frankly, he was too exhausted to argue.

_Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap._

Unlike his father, Mrs Holmes didn't stop to reflect or comfort Mycroft. She remembered how at his age, she just wanted it over and done with as soon as possible, and so spanked him hard and fast with the spoon, trying to ignore the stifled cries coming from him. She did, however, lay her free hand on his back as a small means of comfort. _Snap snap snap snap._ A faster burst. Snivels escaped Mycroft: this hurt an awful lot more than his father's hand had. The spanking lasted barely a minute, but in that time the hard, fast spanks turned Mycroft's bottom a rosy pink. Mrs Holmes couldn't bring herself to do any more than that, and very gently helped Mycroft up, putting her arm tightly around him. Mycroft was a completely different child to normally. Even when he had broken his leg, he hadn't cried more than a single tear, and even then Mrs Holmes was inclined to think it'd been from shock.

This was shoulder-shaking, eyes melting, sobbing.

“Shh, Mycroft, it's okay, it's okay.”

“Sherlock almost _died_ because of me!” Mycroft spat back.

“He didn't almost die- oh, sweetie, he was fine. He's fine. You just made a silly mistake, and it's all fine now.”

For almost ten minutes, Mycroft sobbed into his mother's shoulder, and Mrs Holmes felt guilty for enjoying the closeness.

 


	3. Big Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brotherly protection can lead to punishment, especially when it involves hair-grabbing and genital-kicking.

“Mother, _must_ he come to the same school as me? I didn't start at Wilkes prep until I was ten, so it's really rather unfair that he gets to start at seven.” Mycroft was angry. Really, truly angry. His school, a fee-paying one only three miles away, had a preparatory school connected to it. Wilkes Preparatory and Boarding School. It took children aged seven to eighteen, and while Mycroft would have no lessons or real activities with Sherlock, they would have to travel to and from school together, on the school bus, and would have to see each other in assemblies and other school gatherings.

“Don't believe that I'm more pleased than you, Mycroft.” Sherlock replied, his tiny nose wrinkling. “I'd much rather have stayed on at my old primary school if it meant avoiding you, even if they did slap me every day.”

“You deserved to be slapped, you're a brat!” Mycroft immediately fired back. At fourteen, he wasn't the most attractive male ever to grace the planet: tall, but fat too, with a rounded, greasy, spotty face and a shock of reddish hair. Before Sherlock could respond, Mrs Holmes laid a very firm hand on each of their backs.

“If you two carry on, you'll both be slapped, and don't think I won't do it before school.” she warned them. Mycroft blanched while Sherlock merely shook off the threat: he ended up being spanked at least twice a week, and the threat of another one was hardly life-and-death to him. “Now come on, the school bus will be along in a minute. You keep a good eye on Sherlock, Mike.”

Mycroft nodded, and allowed his mother to fuss over him for a moment before grabbing Sherlock's shoulder and pushing him out of the house after him. Two streets away from them was the bus collection point for their village, and stood at it were the two other children in their village who had enough money to attend the private, fee-paying school. Sighing, Mycroft accepted the fact that until he left school, he would never have another quiet moment.

* * *

 

As was customary for Mycroft, he sat at the front of the school bus, beside a boy in his year who could not speak English, and thus caused no trouble for him. In fact, the boy could occasionally slip him notes in lessons (in French, their only common language) or a sweet during lunch. Mycroft did appreciate these small gestures, though as ever he attempted emotional detachment and didn't allow himself to become too friendly with him. As he sat, he felt momentarily unsure whether he should keep a closer eye on Sherlock and insist upon sitting beside him, but almost immediately decided against it: it would be too risky, and would likely set all of the senior boys against Sherlock. Instead, it would be wiser to keep an eye on him from afar, never interfering, just remembering anything important and reporting it if necessary.

Precisely twelve minutes into the journey, this plan was destroyed.

Sherlock had decided to sit at the very back of the bus, which Mycroft had known was a bad idea – a few boys from the form below him who boarded two stops later than them always sat there, and they were big enough that no one cared to argue.

“Move, you little brat!”

Without drawing attention to himself, Mycroft turned to face the direction of the loud command, trying as hard as possible to look like a surprised but disinterested observer.

One of the boys, a big, beefy boy of fourteen who had been in Mycroft's form but had been kept back due to his profound stupidity (Mycroft believed it had been termed slightly less harshly to his parents), had one of Sherlock's arms, while another similarly-built boy had the other. They were shaking him violently between them, while Sherlock very crossly attempted to writhe back onto the seat.

Four point seven seconds later, Mycroft had grabbed the bigger boy by the hair and was attempting to drag him off of Sherlock. To Sherlock's credit, he aimed a very good kick at the boy's genitals while Mycroft did so, and in a trice he let go of Sherlock. Seeing this, the other boy dropped his arm too, staring in a surprised manner at the leader of his friends, who was in that moment clutching his genitals.

Despite their mental prowess, neither Holmes brother noticed that the bus had stopped, and that the bus driver was advancing upon them at some speed. Grabbing Mycroft by the shoulder, he pushed him back down to the front of the bus, with Sherlock close behind.

“You lot sit up there, and you two stay down here – I'll be reporting all of you when we get up to school!”

As Mycroft sank back into his usual seat, his non-English friend had the sense to slink into a different seat, and Sherlock collapsed beside him.

* * *

 

“Fighting is not acceptable – neither is attacking a younger student! Quite frankly, I am not surprised by you two, but I am shocked at you, Holmes, and as for a first former on his first day? Disgusted!”

The headmaster had called all four boys out of their first lesson, and after a long sit outside of his office to stew over the morning's events they were called in.

“Holmes, since this is your first offence in seven years, I am inclined to let you off lightly. However, you did show extreme disrespect for the rules in protecting your brother, and you are the oldest student involved, so you will receive six with the slipper. Wilson, Fletcher, you have been here for six and seven years respectively and hardly a half term goes by without you two being in here. Additionally, you both started the physical confrontation. You will each receive four of the cane. Holmes, it is your first day at this school and except for a well aimed kick you haven't done anything wrong. However, you should not have sent that kick and you should have been less stubborn and merely moved, so you will receive two with the slipper.”

The boy's reactions were very different. Wilson and Fletcher both looked rather glum, but neither said a word. Mycroft could feel nerves creeping up inside of him, just like the two times in his life when he had been punished, but put on a bored face as if the idea of six with a slipper was no issue to him. Sherlock's bored expression was real: he had been slippered at home and had received more than two on every occasion. He truly was a badly behaved little boy!

“Holmes, Fletcher and Holmes, leave the room while I deal with Wilson. I will call you in one at a time.”

* * *

 

When Wilson left the room, tears were glistening in his eyes, and Fletcher looked rather alarmed to be called in next, leaving the Holmes brothers sat beside each other.

“Tomorrow, sit near the front of the bus.” Mycroft immediately told Sherlock. Sherlock smirked. “Oh no, brother mine, I was planning on sitting at the back of the bus and having my arms pulled out of their sockets again.”

Mycroft shook his head at his brother, before asking, “Nervous?”

This time, it was a laugh that escaped Sherlock, a wide smile drawing its way across his face. “I was slippered at primary school, and I often got far more than two.”

“They didn't inform mummy, though, did they? They do, here.”

Sherlock's eyes widened, but almost imperceivably. “But mummy'll-”

Mycroft nodded. “She'll spank us both, yes. I take it that even you don't want it twice in one day?”

“Of course not, Mycroft – I don't enjoy it by any means. I do make some effort to avoid punishment, but one must weigh up the benefits against the risks, and not being bored is a huge benefit.”

As Mycroft looked at his little brother, it occurred to him as it occasionally did how alike they really were. Until he had joined the school, and had access to literally thousands upon thousands of books in the extensive library, he had been constantly bored. Boredom was intolerable.

“Put your hanky down your pants.” Mycroft suddenly suggested. “Extra padding.”

Sherlock stared at him for a fraction of a second before reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a large white handkerchief. Folded in half, it still covered his bottom, and as he stuffed it into his underwear, Mycroft checked for him that no edges or creases could be seen through his trousers which might inspire further investigation. Before he could put his own extra protection in, however, Fletcher emerged from the room, and indicated to Mycroft to go in.

“Good luck.” came a small voice from behind him. A small Holmes voice. “You'll need it, you're never in trouble – pathetic.”

Mycroft would practically feel the affection seeping from Sherlock in a way that it rarely did.

* * *

 

Mycroft found himself feeling rather more at ease than he had during either of his previous punishments, and it took him a moment to locate the reason why. He had a defined number of strokes, and he had all of his layers of clothing. He knew precisely what would happen to him.

“Bend over the desk, Holmes – I want this over with as quickly as possible. I never thought that I'd see you in here and I don't want you in here again.”

The nerves had died away, just leaving a slight quiver of anxiety at the pain. Stretching across the desk, Mycroft closed his eyes and curled his fingers over the edge of the broad surface, hoping beyond hope that it wouldn't be too painful.

_Whack!_

Mycroft's eyes shot open and became very wide as he took in the pain. It was a very similar stinging sensation to the wooden spoon, but spread over a wider area. Immediately, Mycroft guessed that the punishment from his mother that he was certain to get that afternoon would be no picnic after this. Just as the pain began to pique...

_Whack!_

Even worse. Terrible burning began to accumulate all over his bottom, and the thought that Sherlock had had more than this made Mycroft feel rather sad that anything else. If it was this painful to him, surely it must be torturous to a seven year old.

_Whack! Whack!_

The next two came down immediately after each other, and Mycroft couldn't help but jump up. He had very little tolerance for physical pain, and this was absolutely dreadful. Far worse than either of the spankings he had ever had before.

“That's an extra for leaving position, Holmes.”

Mycroft blanched when he realised that instead of two, he had another three to come. _Stupid_! Why had he left position? Bending back over, he steeled his resolve and clung tightly to the desk.

_Whack!_

Just two more...two more...Mycroft tried hard to keep this in mind as he took the painful stroke. On occasion, a teacher would slipper a boy directly in front of the class if they were reluctant to send them to the headmaster. Mycroft had always assumed that the boys were overreacting when they yelped, or jumped up, or winced as they sat down. Obviously not.

_Whack!_

Before he could even think, Mycroft jumped up again, his hands going back to his bottom. Upon contact, however, he realised that rubbing would make no difference, and tried to get back into position immediately, as if the headmaster wouldn't noticed.

“That's another, Holmes.”

Two whole additional strokes! While Mycroft felt absolutely no guilt for what he had done to earn the original punishment, he felt a certain degree of shame for losing control not once but twice during his slippering. If little babies Sherlock's age could cope with this, he could too!

_Whack! Whack!_

Mycroft thanked the stars that the next two came down practically in the same second, for he was absolutely sure that if there had been too long a gap, he would have moved again. As it was, he managed to grit his teeth and stay bent over until the headmaster firmly said,

“Go to your lesson now, Holmes, and see that you're never back in here – you'll have at least a baseline of eight slipper strokes if you are!”

* * *

 

Lessons that day were not as comfortable as Mycroft would have liked, however the pain did vanish a lot faster than he expected it to. The surface sting was gone in practically ten minutes, leaving a deeper throb which remained for a couple of hours. Slipping into a lavatory at lunch, Mycroft undressed his lower half and peered around to see that his bottom, while a sensitive pink, did not appear too much worse for wear from his experienced.

He doubted that it would remain that way for too long when he got home. As he boarded the school bus he saw that Sherlock was already sat right at the front of it, and he slipped beside him.

“I hear that you got extra. Quite unlike you to lose control like that, Mycroft. You normally leave your loss of control for when you're eating.”

Sharply, Mycroft slapped Sherlock's arm, before smirking. “It barely hurt, anyway.”

It was Sherlock's own turn to smirk, then. “Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft. It hurts awfully. I got an extra one myself.”

This knowledge soothed Mycroft's irritable temper for a microsecond before he realised that Sherlock, who was half his age had still gotten fewer extra than him. A silence settled between them before Sherlock suddenly began to speak very fast,

“Look, Mycroft, after mummy's...finished...with us, I don't want to mention this again. You got in trouble trying to protect me – which was utterly pathetic, obviously, as I was fine by myself – and I'm feeling guilty. As you know, I avoid emotions wherever possible, so this isn't an experience that I'm enjoying.”

Knowing Sherlock, Mycroft had expected to be teased for _months_ about getting spanked. After all, in Sherlock's lifetime Mycroft had only been spanked once before, and Mycroft was almost certain that he didn't remember it.

“It's a deal.” Mycroft replied, firmly shaking his brother's hand.

* * *

 

Precisely thirty three seconds after entering the house, Mycroft and Sherlock were both bent over the kitchen table, their trousers and underwear around their ankles. Sherlock had to go onto his tiptoes to reach the comically high table, while Mycroft found himself bent so far that his arms and head dangled off of the other end of it.

“Sherlock, I am _very_ inclined to believe that this is your fault, as Mike has been in trouble precisely twice in his life. However, you both should have known better and you'll both regret the decisions that you made.”

As a wooden spatula began to crash down onto their bottoms (alternating between them, as Mrs Holmes wanted them both punished at once), both realised that although the slipper's sting had faded, the slight bruising to the muscles had left their bottoms very, very sensitive.

_Snap. Smack. Smack. Smack. Snap._

“If either of you two _ever_ get in trouble again at school, this will feel like a couple of taps!”

The smacks continued for several minutes, and the view would have been rather comical, had anyone else seen it: two bright pink bottoms sticking in the air, with four lighter pink thighs sticking down beneath them. 

Suddenly, as the last smack landed on Mycroft's bottom, ending the punishment, he found himself collapsing into very embarrassing tears.

 


	4. Smoking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft loves nicotine and Sherlock hates maths. On one occasion these two collided with results not as unfortunate as they could have been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you have any particular implement that you wish for Mycroft to receive? The first person to 'review' this chapter and state which implement they would like him to receive will have a chapter where he gets it! This can be anything from a cane to a paddle to a strap...:)

Mycroft smiled slightly as he fished the packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He hadn't had one in almost a week, and he was craving the nicotine rush, the way it sharpened his mind even more but simultaneously relaxed him and made the work even easier.

God, he loved them.

The match took a while to strike, partially because the whole box had been dropped into a puddle that morning, and partially because there was a light drizzle at that very moment. However, when it did strike, Mycroft took a moment to observe the licking flames before holding it to the end of his slightly crumpled cigarette.

A cigarette which never reached his mouth.

“Mycroft, are you _smoking_? You hide it well.”

Mycroft almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of his recently-eight year old brother, and in one smooth movement tossed the cigarette to the floor and ground it under his heel.

“Smoking?” Mycroft replied, trying hard to feign a puzzled look. “I was observing flame patterns on a match in the rain. It's a project for science, which is why I'm out of lesson. The more important question is, why aren't you in maths?”

“That must be why I can smell cigarette smoke.” Sherlock replied wryly. “Because of a match. And anyway, explaining every little detail is a sign of a liar, dear brother. You educated me in that fact when you got me smacked last month.”

“You spilt tea all over my bed, and mother was all ready to smack _me_ for it – which, may I point, would have been the second time in a month I got smacked for your actions, and I've only been smacked three times in total!” Mycroft scowled down at his brother. “Why are you out of maths, anyway?”

“I needed the lavatory, and I didn't specify which one. I'm just on my way now.”

Mycroft couldn't help but laugh at that – maths lessons were taught in one end of the school, and clearly Sherlock had been planning to go across the entire school to get to it. Although he disapproved of Sherlock wasting his education, there was little to waste – just as he had at Sherlock's age, he knew everything being taught to him. However, unlike Sherlock, he'd been stuck in the village primary school, whereas lucky Sherlock was at the school which prided itself on making clever children blossom. Before he could express his mixed approval and disapproval, however, a sharp voice came from behind them.

“Erm, excuse me!” A loud, rather petulant sounding voice cut through them both, and the two Holmes brothers spun around, looking rather alarmed. That voice belonged to one woman and one woman only: Mrs Jones. Short and fat with an alarmingly pig-like face which tended to turn red when she shouted, she was held up by the students with similar amounts of fear and ridicule. Although she was not a senior member of staff, she was treated as if she was, and it seemed as if even other teachers were a little frightened of her.

Of course. Of bloody, buggering course.

“What on _earth_ do you two think you're doing out of lesson? And- is that cigarette smoke I can smell?”

* * *

 

Both Holmes brothers froze stock still for a moment, before Mycroft gave Sherlock a gesture which he knew meant to shut up and let Mycroft do the talking: a very slight prod on his right shoulder. Although Mycroft generally was very good, things just generally seemed to go wrong when both Holmes brothers were in the same room for too long, and Mycroft had saved both of their bottoms on a number of occasions by coming up with a beautifully crafted excuse.

“I'm so sorry, Miss. I was on my way to the Science Labs for my supplementary lessons when I saw my brother here, and requested as to why he was out of lesson. As it is, he was on the way to the lavatory. As for the cigarette smoke, I'm afraid I have no idea.”

Sherlock, in spite of himself, felt a mixture of pride and envy towards Mycroft. Proud that he could come up with such a convincing lie, and envy because he knew he would never be that good at it.

Mrs Jones gave a smile which frightened both Holmes brothers.

When animals stalk their prey and finally corner them, a horrible look comes into their eyes. A nasty, self-satisfied look full of gratification.

Mrs Jones was a predator, and the look in her eyes confirmed that she had captured her prey.

“That's very strange to hear, _Holmes_.” she told them in a sickeningly sweet voice. “Because I was called out of my office by two separate teachers at the same time to look for two different students who were missing from their lessons. Maybe you can guess who those two were?”

“Us, miss, and I apologize for that – myself and my brother must have been caught up talking longer than we thought. Of course, I must accept full responsibility for that.”

Mrs Jones's face lit up and in the same sweet tones, she commanded, “My office. Now. I don't appreciate a liar, Holmes, no matter what familial connection compels you.”

Mrs Jones turned on her heel and began to march towards the building which her office was in, evidently expecting the two boys to follow her. After glancing at each other and sharing an eye roll, they obeyed.

* * *

 

“Holmes, before you ask how I know that you are a liar, I think you may care to look at your blazer breast pocket.”

Mycroft had always found the phrase 'blood ran cold' to be ridiculous – of _course_ the blood didn't run cold, how _ridiculous_. However, he truly learnt its meaning in that moment – without even looking, he knew his error, and a sweeping feeling of coldness ran through him, with his head feeling heavy and numb. Planning on having two or three cigarettes before slipping to his Science tutoring, he had placed the packet into his breast pocket. Of course, due to the size of the pocket, the box of cigarettes was sticking out. As if to add insult to injury, he'd been ignorant enough not to close the lid to the box, and now his cigarettes were ruined.

“Well, there's very little point lying any more, then.” Mycroft slowly commented, with Mrs Jones agreeably nodding. “I was stopping to have a cigarette and my brother caught me before I smoked it. Therefore, I wasn't smoking on school property, I merely lit a cigarette. As for Sherlock, he really was on the way to the lavatory.”

Mycroft knew very well what would come next, for Mrs Jones was well known for it: take a ridiculously harsh punishment from her or a very easy one and a phone call home. Of course, this offer was excellent for people who's parents weren't strict, but a double edged sword for those who were.

“You may either take two strokes of the slipper and a phonecall home, or four strokes of the cane.”

Before Mycroft could even consider his options, Sherlock piped up, “Do we have to pick the same thing?”

“No.” Mrs Jones replied. “Though if one of you were to take the phonecall, the other's name would get dragged in, and I'm sure you would both end up with the truth coming out, anyway...”

The Holmes brothers sighed simultaneously. Really, there was only one choice.

“The slipper.” Both replied. Mrs Jones looked slightly disappointed.

* * *

 

Mycroft, despite his occasional frustration/fury/hatred towards his younger brother, felt slightly sick when Mrs Jones forced him to stay and watch Sherlock be slippered. Although he had seen Sherlock spanked a hundred times at home, this was different. It was apparent from watching, however, that Mrs Jones had absolutely no idea how to handle a slipper. It barely tapped Sherlock, but he responded in a way that made Mycroft almost burst out laughing...he yelled and jumped up, rubbing his bottom furiously. Mycroft caught the tiny wink that he sent his way and clamped his lips shut to send away the mirth he was feeling.

“Get back down, Holmes! That's an extra one!”

Sherlock looked up at Mrs Jones, very realistic fake tears threatening to pour from his eyes. “I'm sorry, miss...that just hurt so much.”

Mrs Jones was untouched by Sherlock's display of amateur dramatics. “Come on, Holmes, we haven't all day.”

Wiping his eyes, Sherlock bent back over, and it didn't escape Mycroft's vision that he had a grin on his face. As if to avoid any more drama, Mrs Jones delivered the next two rather quickly, though so softly they would barely have been felt. As soon as the second was given, Sherlock jumped up and began to rub the seat of his trousers, crying hard. The smile on his face was obscured by one of his hands, which crept up to wipe his eyes. Mycroft smirked, too – how clever of Sherlock, to irritate her and put her off in the hopes that she would go even more softly! His own two 'strokes' passed quickly and without the slightest sting, and the two began to wonder whether they had made the wrong decision in picking the slippering and the phone call. When they arrived home, however, they stopped wondering...

* * *

 

“Mycroft! Sherlock! Living room, now.”

The two boys had barely entered the house when their mother's voice cut sharply through them. Both knew it was best to obey and entered the cosy living room, where their father was sat in his armchair, smoking his pipe. Moments after they sat on the sofa, their mother entered, looking absolutely enraged. In her hands was a large oak hairbrush.

“Mummy, we need to explain what happened.” Sherlock told her quickly. “Don't we, Mycroft?”

Mycroft nodded, deciding to let Sherlock roll with whatever he had decided to say. He himself had been resigned to the severe punishment he was about to receive, after which he was planning on visiting the village to buy a new packet of cigarettes and matches.

“Your excuse had better be a very good one, young man.”

There was a moment of silence before Sherlock began to speak. “Mrs Jones, who is by far the foulest teacher I have ever come across, caught myself and Mycroft in what appeared to be a compromising position. We were both standing at the edge of a wall during lesson time, and Mycroft had a packet of cigarettes in his pocket.”

“I know that – why do you think I have my hairbrush?” their mother asked, obviously still very angry. As if to drive her point across, she whacked the hairbrush across the palm of her hand and the boys both saw that the skin pinkened immediately.

“I was on my way to the lavatory when I heard someone swearing. I went to investigate and saw a lad and Mycroft, and Mycroft was taking a packet of cigarettes and some matches from him – prefects are allowed to confiscate items. He put them into his breast pocket for safekeeping, and the lad left rather quickly. I went up to Mycroft to ask what was going on, and Mrs Jones arrived on the scene. She wouldn't listen to us and has punished us unfairly, herself.”

Mycroft couldn't help but feel quite proud of his brother for coming up with what was a rather convincing lie, which tied the whole story together well. Another moment of silence passed before Mrs Holmes asked,

“What punishment did you receive?”

Mycroft thought it was probably time to help his brother out. “Two of the slipper each, but Sherlock couldn't handle the pain and ended up with an extra one.”

Mrs Holmes looked sceptically at her youngest for a moment, before slowly nodding. However, the matter wasn't quite over.

“Mrs Jones said that you had both been out of lesson for quite a considerable length of time when she found you.”

“That was my fault.” Mycroft told her, in what he hoped dearly was a contrite voice. “I started to explain what had been happening, assuming that he was free during that lesson as I was for the first half, and we lost track of the minutes.”

“Obviously this Mrs Jones got completely the wrong end of the stick in regards to most of the events today.” Mrs Holmes began, setting the hairbrush down onto a cabinet. “However, you did both skip some of your lesson, accidentally as it may have been, and that can't go unpunished.”

Sherlock sighed dejectedly beside Mycroft. “But mummy, we were punished unfairly at school – can't that count as our punishment for this?”

For someone who claimed to be totally emotionally detached, Sherlock could be a bloody good actor when he wanted to be.

“If I'd been Mrs Jones, I'd have given you more than two just for skipping lessons, and her punishment was for that as well as other fairly serious allegations combined! No, you will be punished.”

Picking up her hairbrush, she sat herself in the centre of the other sofa, and beckoned to the two boys. Glancing at each other, Mycroft sighed and got up: to be a big brother was unpleasant, to be a big brother of Sherlock was practically torture.

* * *

 

As soon as Mycroft was within grabbing distance of his mother (which didn't take long), she took hold of his arm and yanked him across her lap. He took the fact that his trousers and underwear had stayed up to be a positive sign. Before he could even have another thought, his punishment came and went.

_ Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! _

The eight whacks of the ornate oak hairbrush stung terribly, and Mycroft waited patiently for more to come. Surely...

“Get up, Mycroft.”

“Are you sure, mummy?”

“Do you want more?”

Mycroft decidedly did not want more, and was up and off of his mother's lap in an instant. His bottom was stinging but that would pass within a few minutes.

“Sherlock, come here.”

Mycroft felt that it was just that Sherlock only got six – he was, after all, younger than Mycroft, and had been rather dragged into the situation.

“I said I'd have given you more than two, I didn't say how many more.” Mrs Holmes told them, with a twinkle in her eye. “Now go and do your homework, you little monsters.”

As Sherlock and Mycroft left the room, they knew that they had gotten off very lightly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this is partially based off of a true story! At my school, the smokers always congregated in a certain place. On one occasion, I saw a little 11 year old run over to them and begin talking to one of the 15 or 16 year olds, when one of the members of the Senior Leadership Team came over. They all got detentions, even the poor little 11 year old.


	5. Woodwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, teachers don't like you for no reason. Mycroft's woodwork teacher was a good example of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review, leave kudos or bookmark this story. I really, really appreciate it! I think that after this there may only be two more chapters, but don't hold me to that! This contains the paddle, as requested!

In Mycroft's opinion, woodwork was invented so that the stupid people would be kept busy.

At least, that was what he told himself when he struggled to get a coping saw into a piece of wood.

While he excelled at academic subjects, Mycroft found himself faltering when it came to more creative subjects. He'd long since given up on art, which his teacher allowed – instead of painting and drawing, he would create an analysis of a famous painting, which the teacher would mark instead. It was a nice little arrangement. He no longer had to study music, as it had been taken off of his timetable to allow room for intensive Scientific study, and Drama wasn't taught at the school, so he had no worries about that.

Mr Jackson, the tall, grim-faced woodwork master (“I am a  _ master _ , not a teacher!” he had bellowed on the first day during his introduction to the class), was absolutely determined to teach Mycroft how to use all manner of saws and other equipment, even if it took him until Mycroft was eighteen.

* * *

 

“Today, you will be sanding off your work from last lesson and then attaching the clip mechanism. There will be  _ no  _ talking and  _ no  _ mistakes!” Mr Jackson commanded. It was the last lesson of the day, and the group was generally very good at woodwork, but rather inclined to mindless chattering. Except for one. Holmes. He was absolutely pitiful at woodwork, but would dutifully say silent during the lesson.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Holmes?”

“I didn't finish the work from last lesson, I need to saw out my background shape...”

Mr Jackson's eyes narrowed. “Holmes, do you recall what I instructed the class to do if they hadn't finished sawing their backgrounds out?”

Mycroft honestly didn't: he paid so little attention in woodwork that he had no clue. It was a hesitant shake of his head that answered Mr Jackson. In a trice, the muscular teacher had crossed the room and grabbed Mycroft's shoulders, shaking him as he shouted,

“I told you to  _ come back after school _ ! Did you do that? No! You're so full of yourself, so bloody certain that you are perfection, that you chose to ignore me! Well, we'll make sure that that doesn't happen again!”

Letting go of one shoulder, Mr Jackson grabbed the other one more tightly and dragged Mycroft to the front of the room. This happened practically every woodwork lesson, and the other students didn't even bother to look up: Mycroft was an outcast anyway, who cared if he got spanked?

Thrown over the desk, Mycroft propped his head onto his hands, waiting for the punishment which he had long grown used to. Woodwork was only taught to students aged twelve and above, and until that year Mycroft had avoided it by planning his intense Mathematics studies for when he was due woodwork lessons. Now, in the three months he had been in the Upper Fourth form, he had been spanked in front of a class of fourteen other boys every Tuesday afternoon.

_ Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! _

It was always interesting to see what Mr Jackson chose to spank him with – it was a good indication of how his Tuesday had gone. Sometimes, he would use a wooden ruler, which didn't make much of an impression through two layers of clothing and Mycroft didn't really care about. On other occasions he would use a thick metal metre stick, which left thin welts across his bottom from where the edges struck him. That metre stick was the usual mode of punishment, and stung terribly, leaving him reluctant to sit down for too long for a few days.

Then, there was the paddle.

Sculpted by Mr Jackson himself, it was long, thick and had holes drilled through it. It was nicknamed 'The Bastard' by students and teachers alike, because anyone who had experienced it highly recommended avoiding it.

Of course, it was The Bastard that Mr Jackson picked that day. Mycroft didn't give him the satisfaction of squirming, though: that would have been against his own ethics. Instead, he closed his eyes and clamped his lips shut throughout the five hard swats, concentrating on the sensation of the nails on his left hand dragging against the palm of his right.

“Go and get a saw, you lazy little boy.”

* * *

 

After a while, woodwork became Mycroft's very own personal source of torture. As the year progressed and he turned fifteen, he would sometimes find himself spanked two, three, even four times in a lesson. Students who heartily disliked Mycroft came up to him in the corridor to tell him that they were sorry he was being picked on like that.

It was only a matter of time before it came to a head.

The woodwork lesson was dragging by and Mycroft had managed to avoid punishment. He had become rather shaky and nervous during his woodwork lessons, and even occasionally suffered from panic attacks, which he would later berate himself for because a smacked bottom was  _ nothing  _ to panic about...at least, that's what he tried to tell himself. However, his standard of work had improved dramatically and it was becoming harder and harder for Mr Jackson to find faults to punish Mycroft for.

Then, he began to make them up.

“Holmes! I saw that – you whispered to Barker! You did, I saw you! Come here right now!”

Mycroft didn't know what made him do it, but he stood completely still and said a single word. “No.”

“No?” Mr Jackson truly looked comical in that moment: nostrils flared, eyes wide, he resembled a bull about to charge.

“I haven't done anything wrong, you just strongly dislike me. Probably because your wife is cheating on you with that redhaired woman, and I'm one of the only red-haired students who are forced to take woodwork, so you take your aggressions out on me. Very interesting behaviour.”

The other students stared wide-eyed at Mycroft – what was he  _ doing _ ? Mr Jackson stood still for a moment, cracking his knuckles, before very softly speaking.

“Right.  _ Right. _ ”

In the six seconds it took Mr Jackson to charge to the back of the room where Mycroft was working, the students around him had clustered as a protective barrier.

“You're not being fair, sir!”

“Come on sir, leave Mycroft alone, he hasn't done a thing!”

Mycroft was grateful that practically all of the class were sticking up for him, but also well aware that they were only serving to make Mr Jackson more and more angry.

“If you don't move away from Holmes in precisely one second, I will paddle every single member of this class.”

No one moved.

* * *

 

While it wasn't common to punish an entire class, it wasn't unheard of, either. Occasionally, in the lower school, a whole class of seven or eight year olds would receive one or two with the slipper as a result of too much talking.

It was, however, unheard of for an entire group of fourteen to fifteen year old boys each taking twelve vicious strokes of the paddle without so much as a murmur. Even Mycroft took his silently, but he couldn't help the tears that sprang up in his eyes. He could feel burning bruises beginning to form on his bottom, and even more tears sprang to his eyes when Mr Jackson spat,

“Now I'm going to phone every single one of your parents and inform them of this incident.”

While he noisily complained on the phone to the first parent, a whisper slipped down the line of boys, some of whom were silently but openly crying and others who seemed barely affected by their violent punishment.

“Let's go and complain to the headmaster, right now!”

Not stopping to think, Mycroft agreed readily, a tiny glimmer of hope appearing in his mind. Maybe Mr Jackson would be sacked! So, thanking God or whatever deity they believed in, three class members including Mycroft slipped out of the door to visit the headmaster.

* * *

 

“Come in!”

Mycroft, and the two other boys (his foreign friend, who was called Jean Beaumont, and another chap called Christopher Lane) entered the much-feared office, all rather nervous now that they were there.

“What do you three boys want – and why are you out of lesson?” The headmaster spoke sharply, though the three students in front of him were all intelligent and generally well-behaved boys.

“We have a serious complaint to make about a member of staff.”

The headmaster looked slightly puzzled for a moment, before curiously asking, “Which member of staff?”

“Mr Jackson, the woodworks master.”

“Why?”

Both Christopher and Jean looked towards Mycroft to answer, and sighing, he did so.

“Because I was practically inept at woodworks at the start of the year, Mr Jackson took a strong disliking towards me. Instead of helping me, however, he would punish me frequently – generally once a lesson at first. Then, as I started to progress in the subject, he began to punish me more and more frequently, with the most times being five in one lesson. The work that I produce now is practically at the same standard as every other student, if not better than some, and yet the punishments still came to me. As you are aware, my record is practically empty of punishments, so it would be very out of character and unlike me to earn such a quantity of punishment. Today, it came to a head when Mr Jackson ordered me to the front of the room for punishment, and I refused. The other students stuck by me because they know of how victimised I am in his lessons, and so we all received twelve strokes of the bas- of the paddle.”

The headmaster sat quietly for a moment, observing the three boys, before speaking.

“Lane, do you agree with Holmes's story?”

Christopher nodded vigorously. “He did a similar thing to Michael Barns last year, before Michael left.”

“And you, Beaumont?”

“Yes, sir.” Jean hesitated for a moment before adding, “Mr Jackson is currently telephoning all of our parents to complain about us. I don't know about Christopher or Mycroft, but I will be punished when I return home, for something not my fault.”

In that moment, Mycroft noticed just how well Jean was speaking English – evidently, he had been studying it hard.

The headmaster twiddled his fingers for a moment, before standing up.

“I am going to go to your classroom and stop Mr Jackson from making any more phone calls, and when I return to my office I will phone all of your parents. Proper investigations will be carried out tomorrow.”

* * *

 

Only when sitting on the bus, were the fifteen pupils from Mr Jackson's class clearly visible: all squirmed uncomfortably in their seat, the dull throbbing and horrible, deep pain exquisite on the bumpy country bus. No one from other classes teased them, however – all of the older pupils were well aware of Mr Jackson's ways, and felt rather sorry for the 'little kids'.

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft glanced to his side – there was Sherlock, looking rather curious.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I know that you're uncomfortable, would you rather get off at the next stop and walk the rest of the way home?”

Mycroft contemplated his choices for a moment: sitting was torture, but so was walking, where the bruised muscles were forced to move and warm up. Judging by the level of pain he was experiencing and the data he had collected in a bruises experiment when he was seven or so, his whole bottom was going to be bruised by the time he got home.

“I'd rather stay here.” Mycroft replied after a while, contemplating what would happen when he got home. One of two things – either his mother would punish him further, or she would sympathise with him and find a hundred and one different creams which would soothe bruises. Immediately after thinking it, he crossed out the latter – she would definitely sympathise. After all, Mycroft had heard many stories of unjust beatings she had received in her time at school (and had privately thought that many of them were perfectly valid) and so in all likeliness she would be even more sympathetic. Before Mycroft could think too much the bus drew to a halt at the village stop and it was time to leave anyway.

* * *

 

The two boys had barely walked through the door before Mrs Holmes descended upon them. Pulling Mycroft into her arms, she hugged him tightly, ignoring his very vocal protest as well as his heavy, resigned sigh. 

“I'm so sorry about what's been happening to you, Mikey.” she whispered into his ear, rubbing his back softly. “Why on earth didn't you tell me what was happening?”

After a moment more hugging, Mycroft drew back and replied, “I assumed, based on past data, that you would punish me as well.”

Mrs Holmes's eyes widened, and she looked shocked. Before Mycroft could stop her, she lunged back at him, holding him closely to her once more. Behind them, Sherlock was giggling, sounding rather delighted with the whole scene.

“Mycroft, I'd  _ never  _ punish you for something which wasn't your fault. Never.”

Mycroft sighed: perfect. Now he'd managed to upset his mother. “I'll tell you if anything else happens, mummy, but I highly doubt it will.”

“Good!” Mrs Holmes exclaimed. “We don't pay thousands of pounds for you to be abused!”

That night, when Mycroft went to bed, he was kept awake until the early hours by the harsh throbbing in his bottom.

 


	6. Kitchen Experiments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mummy's only advice was to keep Sherlock out of the kitchen. Of course, the one time Mycroft failed to follow her advice, a catastrophe occurred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the penultimate chapter! Thank you for reading and reviewing...you all are sweethearts! Just a warning: Mycroft spanks Sherlock in this. I know some people get a bit squicky about that and I wanted to warn you.

_Mikey,_

_I hope that you and Sherlock are okay whilst myself and your father are away. You already have the emergency number to call if you need to reach us, and we will only be an hour away. Don't forget to keep Sherlock firmly out of the kitchen! There is plenty of food and I've left a few pounds in the jam jar if you need them – they're there so that Sherly doesn't take them! Have a nice weekend, and don't forget to wash the dishes!_

_Love,_

_Mummy xxx_

Despite having almost three months notice that he would be left alone for the weekend with his bratty little brother for company, sixteen year old Mycroft didn't feel any less disgruntled than he had when he was originally informed. Nine year old boys weren't fun at the best of times (Mycroft would know, he was now a senior prefect at school), and when that specific nine year old happened to be a very petulant Sherlock who's chemistry set had been confiscated as punishment, it felt almost like a punishment to Mycroft himself.

* * *

 

“Sherlock, it will take me precisely twelve more minutes to prepare dinner, and then another thirteen for it to simmer – you can wait for twenty five minutes!”

Almost three hours into their shared incarceration, Mycroft was close to losing his temper. How on earth his parents coped with her monstrous little brother on a 24/7 basis, he had no idea. He was rude, annoying and far too eager to share his deductions.

“When did you get a boyfriend, Mycroft?” Sherlock replied, smirking, before carefully lifting the biscuit tin down, removing a bourbon and swaggering from the room, leaving Mycroft to simmer just like the pasta sauce he was cooking. The answer to Sherlock's question was 'four days ago', and Mycroft wouldn't have been surprised if Sherlock had worked it out within seconds of them getting onto the school bus that day. It wasn't every day a sixteen year old boy got his first kiss from another boy, especially not a tall, hunky, eighteen year old one called Greg Lestrade.

Smirking a little, Mycroft added a handful of button mushrooms to the dish: Sherlock absolutely detested the taste of mushrooms, and was likely to whinge and complain about the pasta and even try and feed it to the dog, Redbeard. Of course, Redbeard wouldn't accept this, and it was likely that Sherlock would be sat at the table for all hours until he finally ate the pasta. That had happened on several occasions when their mother had dished something up which Sherlock disliked, and even Mycroft had sat at the table for several hours after a meal ended on occasion, refusing to eat the dish until either hunger or boredom broke him.

* * *

 

When the dish was ready to simmer, Mycroft set the pasta on to cook and retired back to his bedroom until it was done, a thick pile of homework in front of him. It was easy, of course, but it was so much  _ effort,  _ and effort wasn't really Mycroft's forte.

Footsteps. Presumably, it was Sherlock going to get a drink or perhaps to use the downstairs lavatory. Mycroft took absolutely no notice of the fact that he had heard them until...

_Crash!_

This crash was followed by a very loud, very infantile sounding,

“Oh, fuck.”

Effort may not have been Mycroft's favourite thing, but he practically tripped over himself thundering down the stairs to the kitchen. Sherlock stood looking (sensibly) nervous. In one hand was a smouldering teacloth, while the other was empty. Around his feet lay the remains of Mycroft's pasta sauce.

Mycroft saw red.

Lifting Sherlock easily from out of the mess, he carried him hastily to the living room, praising his mother internally for forcing the brat to wear slippers in the house – his pale feet, which could so easily have been burned, were safe.

His bottom, however, was not.

Mycroft had never laid a finger on Sherlock before, for physical confrontation was neither of their style of revenge, and his mother and father handled punishment.

Now, in one smooth movement, he had Sherlock over his lap, with his trousers being lowered as quickly as Mycroft could manage. His underwear soon followed, and without even thinking Mycroft began to spank him for all he was worth. His hand crashed down time and time again, and despite Sherlock's frequent punishments at home and school, he wriggled and squirmed as Mycroft turned his bottom bright red, even letting out a rather undignified,

“Ouch!” along with a squeal.

* * *

 

Mycroft had been spanking for almost two full minutes before he paused for a moment, his hands instantly going to hold Sherlock in place so that he couldn't escape.

“Sherlock, do you have any idea how  _ stupid  _ you are? Mummy would have killed me if you burnt yourself or hurt yourself badly while she was gone – not to mention, you could have really seriously damaged yourself with that bloody pot!”

From his position bent downwards, Sherlock grumpily replied, “I was trying to see how close the tea towel had to be to the flame to set on fire, and I was surprised by how far away it had to be! You can't blame me for having an experiment!”

At this, a new flurry of spanks broke out across Sherlock's bottom, and he let out a low gasp at the pain. Rarely was he given a spanking delivered with such fury. However, at that moment, he smelt something rather more important than Sherlock's bottom at that point.

Fire.

And not just on Sherlock's bottom.

* * *

 

When 999 arrived, the firemen and women almost laughed at what they came across. A wooden surface on fire, certainly, but also a very panicky teenager trying to set it out with buckets upon buckets of water and a grumpy looking child rubbing his bottom and complaining rather loudly about the spanking he had just received (his complaining ceased when he noticed the fireworkers). The fire was dealt with quickly, after which Mycroft and Sherlock were both given a very thorough telling off by a stern looking policewoman which made them both cringe. Finally, though, the two were alone in the house with a burnt up kitchen surface and no dinner.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft angrily. His eyelashes were still damp with tears which had arrived much to his disdain during the fast and furious spanking that had been delivered to him by his brother. “What?”

“I'm not sorry for spanking you.”

With that, Sherlock grabbed the biscuit tin in its entirety and stormed upstairs, looking more like a six year old having a tantrum than a prodigious nine year old with a sore bottom. Sighing, Mycroft picked up the telephone and typed in the emergency number for his parents.

* * *

 

“Mycroft? What's wrong? Do you need us to come home?” Mrs Holmes sounded so panicked on the end of the phone that the true seriousness of the situation finally hit Mycroft. The burned surface would cost hundreds to replace. He had spanked his brother without permission. He was in serious trouble.

“You don't need to come home, mummy, but there was a problem. I was cooking dinner and I left the dish to simmer. Sherlock decided to do some ridiculous experiment with a tea cloth and fire, and he ended up knocking a whole pot of pasta sauce on the floor and setting the wooden sideboard on fire.”

“He  _ what _ ?”

“He's fine, mummy, he wasn't burned. The only problem was...I didn't notice that the sideboard was setting on fire and I dragged Sherlock off and spanked him before we realised.”

The static on the phone seemed deafening to Mycroft.

“So the sideboard is burned up, I take it?”

“Yes, mummy.”

“And you spanked Sherlock, something which you know you should not do and should have left to myself and your father?”

“Yes, mummy.”

There was a moment of silence, before Mrs Holmes firmly said, “We're going to stay for the weekend, but until we get home, you will have no hot food. You are prohibited from using the microwave, oven, toaster...anything. When we return home, you're both going to have the worst spankings of your lives.”

Although his mother wasn't there to see it, Mycroft's eyes widened dramatically. “But, mummy-”

“But mummy  _ nothing _ ! I gave you very simple instructions – look after Sherlock and keep him out of the kitchen! You failed on both of those! And as for Sherlock...I'm not surprised, but I am furious! You call Sherlock right now so that I can talk to him!”

After calling Sherlock five times, he finally appeared, loping down the stairs at his own pace.

“Mummy wants to speak to you.” Mycroft told him, with a slight smile. Sherlock turned rather pale immediately, but took the proffered hand set. It took approximately thirty more seconds for him to become even paler, and to even swallow nervously.

“But mummy- Mycroft already spanked me!”

Eventually, Sherlock whispered,

“Bye, mummy.”, and handed the phone back over to Mycroft.

* * *

 

The rest of the weekend was a very nervous one for both boys. Anxiously anticipating their spankings, neither had much stomach for teasing the other, though Sherlock did occasionally give his bottom a slight rub and send an angry glare in Mycroft's direction. Mycroft felt very little regret over spanking Sherlock – he had deserved it, and frankly, if the message that his behaviour had been unacceptable hadn't been delivered immediately, Mycroft doubted whether it would have sunk in at all.

Finally, Sunday came by. Unlike the rest of Friday and the entirety of Saturday, which had dragged by, the day seemed to whiz away until it was seven o' clock, the time when their parents were due back.

The lock clicked.

The door was opening.

Their father was shifting their suitcase.

Their parents were home.

As soon as they entered the house and re-locked the door, Mrs Holmes located Mycroft and Sherlock in the living room.

“Stand up, you two!”

Both obeyed nervously, though simultaneously both tried to suppress their nerves. Mrs Holmes immediately approached Sherlock, who happened to be nearer to her, and bent him over where he stood. Her hand came down six times onto his bottom, the hardest swats that Mycroft had ever seen administered. Certainly, Sherlock squirmed, his body jerking forwards with each swat.

“Go to your room, Sherlock, and wait for your father.”

Mrs Holmes crossed the room, and soon Mycroft received the same pre-punishment. Six hard, painful swats which stung like bees, followed by a lighter slap sending Mycroft in the direction of the stairs and the call,

“You too!”

* * *

 

Mycroft was almost thankful that it was his own bedroom door that opened first, and not Sherlock's: he was unsure of how well he would have held up if he had had to listen to the younger boy's first, knowing that whatever he got would be harder and longer.

He was, however, surprised to see his father standing there, rather than his mother. His father rarely punished Sherlock, and had only punished Mycroft himself once, his very first spanking.

It was the fact that he held his belt in his hands which alarmed Mycroft the most.

“Let's get this over with. I have to deal with Sherlock soon, too.”

The tiredness in Mr Holmes's voice surprised Mycroft, for his father was usually energetic and complaining at them for being lethargic.

“Father – are you okay?”

Mr Holmes sighed. “I don't want to use this on you, but your mother insists that it's this or the cane, and I'd prefer you had this.”

“I am sorry for what happened...for everything. I should have kept a closer eye on Sherlock and I shouldn't have spanked him.”

For a second, Mr Holmes smiled and leant closer to Mycroft. “Shall I tell you a secret?”

Mycroft slowly nodded, surprised.

“I think you were absolutely right to spank your brother. I mean, you're a senior prefect at school, and you have the power to slipper students, anyway...it would only have been a matter of time, anyway.”

“What position do you want me in?” Mycroft abruptly asked, trying to hide his smile that his father agreed with him.

“Lower your trousers and underwear, and I think over the bed would be best.”

Without even a sigh, Mycroft obeyed, his knees buckled slightly due to how tall he was compared to the height of his bed.

_Whap!_

Ow! That hurt! A second after having these thoughts, Mycroft shook his head at his own infantile thought before lowering his head into the blanket and clutching it between his fingers, just as he did when he was a small child. The belt probably hurt about equally with the paddle, but the paddle had been over two layers of clothing.

_Whap! Whap!_

Oh. Well. Mycroft hissed through his teeth as the pain from his first three with the belt really struck him. They stung awfully, and were accompanied by a deep burning sensation unlike anything he had experienced before. Instantly the scientific part of his brain tried to work out this burn, but...

_Whap! Whap! Whap!_

Six strokes of the belt was definitely the most painful thing Mycroft had ever experienced, and he began to sniffle into the blanket. He hated himself for it, but god, it hurt. His entire bottom literally felt as if it was on fire, and where the tip of the belt had caught his hip he was absolutely certain that he would have a little bruise.

* * *

 

It took seventeen of the very best strokes to break Mycroft. He had began to squirm and writhe at around ten, but at fourteen he began to cry openly and then at seventeen he swung his hands back to cover his bottom. Mr Holmes knew then that Mycroft had been punished enough: Mycroft very rarely lost control during anything, and for him to do so during a punishment said that he had had enough.

“Come on, Mycroft, up you get.”

Mycroft stood up slowly, wincing as the muscles in his bottom which had been stretched taut during his punishment came to a resting position. His bottom was a dark, angry red colour, and tears were staining his face. Mr Holmes dropped his thick, dark belt to the floor and grabbed his son into his arms, holding him close. Just as when he was smaller, Mycroft didn't protest – he was too wrapped up in the pain in his bottom to put on his act of emotional detachment, and all he really wanted was for someone to hold him.

“It'll be okay, Mycroft. You're going to have a painful couple of days, and you're probably going to have a bit of bruising, but you'll be okay. Trust me.”

It was then that a thought struck Mycroft: how could he sit in school for hours on end? When he voiced this concern, his father hugged him a little tighter.

“You'll be fine, and if you're not, go to the office and ask them to phone home. If you need to, you can come home tomorrow.”

Mycroft nodded and accepted a final hug from his father before he went to deal with Sherlock.

 


	7. The Last Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Past crimes can sometimes catch up with you, especially when you have a bratty little brother.

 

The responsibility which came with being a senior prefect which Mycroft hated the most was punishing some of the younger pupils. Any teacher could delegate a punishment to the prefects, and if the prefects came across mischief in the corridors they could punish the offenders without being given permission.

At first, Mycroft quite enjoyed it, in a strange kind of way.

Certain pupils in the lower years were perpetually cheeky and rude, and it had been excellent to be able to take some of them in hand and deliver a slippering not unlike Mycroft's first one.

The, he had noticed how frequently Sherlock had appeared in the prefect common room, clutching a note from a teacher or being clutched by the upper arm by some irate prefect. It was almost impossible that Mycroft would never slipper Sherlock, and he had seen a few of the boys have to punish their younger siblings or other relatives before, but he wasn't sure whether he could do it himself. After all, the one time he had spanked his brother had been without permission, and he had paid for it with his bottom.

What would his mother say if he did end up slippering Sherlock?

Of course, logically, when the situation arose his mother should treat it as whenever Sherlock was punished by anyone else: generally, he was punished at home too, with anything from a spanking to a washed out mouth to lines (which the youngest Holmes _detested_ ).

With his overly-emotional mother and his manipulative little brother, however, he truly didn't know.

* * *

 

“Have you heard the news?”

Francis Baker, one of the most dramatic boys that Mycroft had ever met who also happened to be one of his fellow senior prefects, burst into the prefect common room with his usual gusto and aplomb. However, he seemed even more excitable today – he was practically jumping from foot to foot, something generally more suitable for six year olds than the seventeen year old he was.

“What news? Have they finally made an 'Anne of Green Gables' musical? Can we finally let that complaint die?” irritably replied Morgan, one of the youngest senior prefects, who was just fifteen. He was the polar opposite of Francis, but Mycroft felt a bemused appreciation towards both. For a second, Francis looked crestfallen, before bouncing back and replying,

“No – two nine year old's have been caught smoking! The headmaster is going to cane them, and they might be expelled!”

Instantly, Mycroft jumped out of his seat, a mixture of blind panic and dread filling him. Without even asking, he knew immediately that one was his idiotic little brother. Worse, he knew where the cigarettes had come from: his own bedroom. Only a week previously, a packet had vanished totally from his room, but Sherlock had sworn vehemently that he hadn't taken it, and no signs of lying had been visible, so Mycroft had let it go.

Obviously, Sherlock was becoming a better liar.

“I...let Mr Collins know that I may be late for Chemistry.” he briefly told Francis, who happened to be a little bit lacking in intellect and was only in Mycroft's form but was a whole year older than him, before leaving the common room. He would have to confess. Sherlock couldn't be expelled – it would break his mother's heart.

* * *

 

Mycroft knocked on the door to the headmaster's office with a heavy heart. Certainly, he couldn't be punished for smoking outside of school, but he was fairly certain that his efforts to plead for Sherlock would be embarrassing and unappreciated, and his mother would give him a royal walloping when he reached home.

“Come in!” the headmaster called, sounding rather annoyed. Mycroft entered the room and saw two boys, Sherlock and a lad that he vaguely recognized and connected the name James Richards to.

“Holmes, what do you want? I am currently rather busy.”

“Please, headmaster...the cigarettes which Sherlock had were mine. He took them from my desk, admittedly, but they were mine. Obviously, he was trying to emulate me to some degree with smoking, and he doesn't deserve to be expelled – and Richards certainly doesn't, either.”

Mycroft spoke quickly, prodding Sherlock hard in the back to warn him to stay silent. The headmaster looked rather astonished at Mycroft's sudden speech, and turned to glare at Sherlock.

“Is this true?” he asked sharply, his long nose wrinkled as he looked with disdain at Sherlock.

“Yes, sir. I just wanted to be like my brother.”

It was Mycroft's turn to receive a disdainful look. “Is your mother aware that you smoke, Holmes?”

Mycroft didn't need to put on anxiety or pretend to be any more nervous than he already was: genuine fear was coursing through his veins at lightening-bolt speed. His mother never hid her hatred of smoking from his father, and he had absolutely no doubt that when he got home he would be in for a severe punishment.

“No, sir.”

“Your comments shed rather a different light on the situation, Holmes.” The headmaster commented, stroking his chin in thought. “A child smoking for the fun of it and dragging another child in, that's practically unforgivable. A child smoking to emulate his beloved older brother and another child becoming involved, that's more understandable.”

A few moments of silence filled the room before the headmaster barked,

“Richards, you will serve a one hour detention after school tomorrow. See that you never find yourself in this office again. You are dismissed.”

Richards, who had been shaking violently until that point, stood up and thanked the headmaster vehemently. Evidently, he had been anticipating the worst.

“Holmes, older and younger. I am at a loss of what to do with you.”

* * *

 

It took almost twenty minutes of uncomfortable silence (during which Mycroft decided to sit in Richards's vacated chair) before the headmaster made a decision.

“Holmes, are your parents strict?”

Sherlock was well aware that the headmaster was addressing Mycroft, and for once decided to stay quiet. He _hadn't_ been imitating Mycroft, of course: he'd actually been rather interested in the effects of nicotine on the body, and had been pleasantly surprised by the results. However, he saw that Mycroft's smooth story would result in the least trouble for himself and kept almost silent.

“Yes, sir, very.”

“What will happen if I telephone your mother and explain exactly what has happened?”

Sherlock barely held back a smile at the ugly pink colour Mycroft's spotty, greasy face turned. “We'd, erm, we'd both be spanked, sir.”

A wide smile flourished on the headmaster's face. “I think I have found our solution.”

Within four minutes of the end of the phone call, Mr and Mrs Holmes were climbing onto a bus which came near the school, a large oak hairbrush sitting in Mrs Holmes's handbag.

* * *

 

The headmaster had to admit, the Holmes parents were ace scolders. They seemed to take it in turns to tell off the boys, and had very different approaches: Mr Holmes looked very disappointed and spoke reproachfully about letting the family down, while Mrs Holmes sounded very cold and very angry as she coolly informed them of their stupidity. It seemed to work well: Mycroft looked tired and drawn, while Sherlock looked white and frightened.

“Headmaster, have you explained their punishments to them?”

Sherlock and Mycroft, who had been sent out of the office during the phone call, both looked up, alarmed.

“No – I thought it better that you explain.”

“The headmaster feels it will be more... _effective_ , shall we say, if you are punished on school grounds. Technically, you have done nothing against the school rules, Mike, but don't think that I'm not absolutely _furious_ at you. Sherlock, you smoked on school grounds, and that is against the school rules. The headmaster is going to slipper you, and immediately after I shall spank you. Mycroft, your father will spank you. Smokers under the age of eighteen in this family are banned, and if I ever catch either of you smoking again, you will be very, very sorry.”

Mrs Holmes commanded authority. The headmaster could see exactly where Mycroft got his icy manner when it came to dealing with younger pupils from, and was rather impressed to see both Holmes brothers looking thoroughly chastened already.

* * *

 

The mission was a highly efficient one. While Sherlock bent over the headmaster's desk for six of the very best of the slipper (which quickly turned into nine when he was unable to stay in position), Mycroft bent awkwardly over his father's lap, too big to really fit in the position. The first spanking which Mycroft had received with the hairbrush, which had been eight sharp swats over two layers of clothing, was nothing compared to this.

_Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!_

Aware of his headmaster's presence, he tried hard to keep his bottom in one stationary position and his writhing to a minimum. It wasn't, however, viable – the hairbrush stung more than he thought possible, with an underburn which bit hard. The smacks were fastpaced and at several points Mycroft thought that he genuinely couldn't take any more pain. He tried every method he had to block the pain out, to no avail – the hairbrush was a cruel mistress, and as it spanked and spanked, Mycroft felt as though he wanted to explode every cigarette in the world just to keep the blasted things away from him.

Sherlock wasn't faring much better.

His strokes with the slipper were spaced out a lot more, and over two layers of clothing, but he was suffering too. They were hard strokes, and the small boy was crying within three of them (he assured himself in his head that his strong reaction was because of nicotine withdrawal). When his slippering was over, he had about a minute to sniffle by himself while Mycroft's spanking ended, before being upended, his clothes lowered and his already bright pink bottom given a rather gentle spanking which just doled out plenty of superficial sting but no real bite.

It was to be Mycroft's last punishment.

* * *

 

Years later, when Mycroft stood in Buckingham palace, staring in exasperation after his stark naked (except for a sheet) and raving mad brother, he was forcibly reminded of all of the occasions he had been punished, and of the many, many occasions Sherlock had been.

“Pasta sauce.” he suddenly found himself saying, glowering at Sherlock's back. Sherlock's head twitched up, and he turned slightly. John stood slightly further back, utterly bewildered.

“Cigarette.” Mycroft continued, smiling nastily at the blush on his madcap brother's face.

“Maths lesson.”

“Let me remind you, dear brother, that these were instances where you...got it, too.” Sherlock replied, his blush still bright.

“What's going on?” asked a rather bemused John, glancing from a self-satisfied looking Mycroft to his madcap flatmate.

“I assure you, brother mine, that I can think of an abundance of instances when it was just you. For example, when you decided it would be amusing to smash all of the beakers in my room, and mummy sp-”

“That's enough!” snapped Sherlock. “I'll put my clothes on!”

“Good.” Mycroft smoothly replied. “Because I doubt you will be pleased to know that I have the headmaster's old slipper in my inventory, and I am not afraid to use it.”

A look of comprehension dawned on John's face as he looked between the two brothers, bemusement replaced with amusement.

“You wouldn't dare!” Sherlock spat...as he collected the small pile of clothes and wrapped his sheet more tightly around himself.

It was reassuring to know that the old methods still worked.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, bookmarking, giving kudos and reviewing this little story! I appreciate it all, and I am much more inclined to write more for this account after such lovely feedback! Thank you!


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